If Only I Had Known

Another “misdirection” poem 

 

Sipping my convenience store coffee,

pumping gas into a 11-year old white sedan,

I see the low-lying fog burning off in the

recesses of the cemetery across the street,

an endless lawn of granite markers

and weathered plastic bouquets.

 

With my debut into the fifties still quite fresh

and the march less than bold, I’m suddenly struck by

the collective voice of the deceased who’ve

become sages through decades of removed

and elevated perspective, and

 

in this moment the whispers of these ancestors

mingle with the mist and they say to me,

“Gas is 3 cents a gallon cheaper down the street.”

 

 

--rLp--